


Another Shore: Scenes from the Other Side

by electricshoebox



Series: A Line in the Sand Series [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol, Angst and Humor, Gen, Innuendo, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Relationship Advice, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:13:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28365954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricshoebox/pseuds/electricshoebox
Summary: One-shot collection. Off-screen and reverse perspective MacCready point-of-view scenes from A Line in the Sand.
Relationships: Deacon/Robert Joseph MacCready, John Hancock & Robert Joseph MacCready
Series: A Line in the Sand Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1931980
Comments: 20
Kudos: 20





	Another Shore: Scenes from the Other Side

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, friends. So while I was writing ALITS, I chose to limit myself just to Deacon's perspective. This is going to be a purely self-indulgent collection of extra and reverse perspective scenes from MacCready's point of view instead, just for fun. There are a lot of moments I have a clear picture of what was happening with MacCready or what he was thinking that I obviously didn't have the chance to include, and I'm having fun putting them down in words. This will update sporadically as inspiration strikes. Each chapter title will connect to the corresponding ALITS scene.
> 
> Great thanks once again to [serenityfails](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenityfails) for their beta work. My thanks to them as well as [whitachi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitachi), [velvetverve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetverve), and everyone else who helped suggest ideas for Hancock's "usual" at the Third Rail for this scene.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: just social alcohol consumption that leads to light drunkenness. And bad advice. 
> 
> Scene summary: After a conversation with Deacon in a church steeple leaves MacCready feeling rejected and off-center, he tries to drink the feeling away while Deacon and Anthony take care of business. Hancock stops by with advice.

From [A Line in the Sand, Ch. 7](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20264608/chapters/51443881): 

_“Anyway, the—” MacCready makes an abortive gesture with his cigarette, “—y’know, settlement security thing came later. The Minutemen were still picking up the pieces and it was just like he told you. Who better to know how to keep people like the Gunners out than one of their own?” He wrinkles his nose a little after he says it, and adds, “Not that I was ever really a, uh, five star member. Good fu—fricking riddance.”_

_There’s another opening there, if Deacon wants to take it. And he does. Which makes him look away sharply, scrambling to steady himself against the wave of anxiety that little realization sends through his chest. He looks at what he can see of the broken street beyond the church, until the height makes him dizzy and he has to look away from that too. God, he wants to run. He wants to barrel back down the stairs, grab his things, and run down that street until his legs give out. And he can list all the points for himself about self-preservation, he can count out all the reasons that it’s safer for him to be alone. But it was so much easier to convince himself that was what he was afraid of before he knew things like Anthony will face down an entire gang for people he cares about just because he fucking cares. Not going to have much luck making himself believe he’s going to get backstabbed and sold out in the face of that._

_No. The real problem, the real fucking problem, is that when Deacon does something like care about people that much, he gets them fucking killed._

_Deacon clears his throat, and wraps his hands around the bottle so MacCready won’t see them shaking. “Well, anyway, you should head down and get some sleep while you still can.”_

_There’s a flicker of confusion on MacCready’s face, so brief it would take someone with Deacon’s brand of perception to catch it. Then MacCready shrugs and takes a last drag of the cigarette before moving to stub it out. Deacon catches his hand and plucks it away instead._

_“No need to waste it,” he says, drawing it to his lips. He just means to steal it to settle his nerves, since it’ll take half the bottle of liquor to do the same. It doesn’t occur to him until he sees that confusion back in bold on MacCready’s face how any of that looked, or that he’s still holding MacCready’s wrist. He drops it._

_“I, uh—” MacCready’s staring at him, and Deacon keeps his sunglasses forward but turns his eyes away, because Christ, you idiot, what are you doing? “I didn’t think you smoked.”_

_“Depends on the role I’m playing. Who I need to be in the moment,” Deacon says, and barely keeps from wincing. His traitorous eyes drift back up, and he watches something change in MacCready’s face, and shutter closed. Deacon looks away again._

_“Right. The role you’re playing,” MacCready says, warmth gone out of his tone. He frowns down at the floor for a long moment. Then he shifts forward. “You gonna move, or what?”_

\----

MacCready knocks back the last of his beer, tipping his head back until the last drop hits his tongue. Then he slumps forward, dropping the bottle on the counter with a loud _clang_. It sounds over the din of the crowd clogging the tables behind him, and over the music backing Magnolia through the speaker in the corner of her stage. Whitechapel Charlie turns one mechanical eye MacCready’s way and narrows it. The other two stay on the wine he’s pouring for some dolled-up, sparkling dress on the far end of the bar. One of Diamond City’s slummers, probably. Too clean-faced and red-lipped for anything else. She might’ve turned his head, on another night. 

Charlie slides the wine glass to her and then turns. He corks the wine bottle with two of his arms as he glides over to where MacCready sits. “What, you leave your manners in that fancy town you’re living in now? Forgot how to say ‘please, may I have another’?” 

“You ever known me to bring my manners, Charlie?” MacCready says. He leans back a little on the stool. “But hey, listen, while you’re here..." He smirks. “I’ll take another.” 

Charlie gives him the flattest look a three-eyed floating robot can muster. “You’re lucky I can’t spit in your drink.” 

“You know you love me, buddy,” MacCready says, still smirking. He chuckles to himself, and reaches under the counter to pop the snap on his thigh pouch. He fumbles through it until his fingertips brush his cigarette pack. He pulls it free and holds it up. Three left. Dang. He should’ve picked up more while he was shooting the sh—while he was bothering Daisy. He eases one free and slips it between his lips. 

Abruptly, the phantom feeling of fingers wrapping around his wrist comes back to him. He freezes. He thinks of those fingers sliding past his, plucking the half-burned cigarette from between them. 

_No need to waste it_. 

“I’ll love you when you pay your tab.” 

MacCready’s eyes snap up. A fresh beer lands in front of him, sloshing against the glass. The mechanical arm retreats. It takes him a moment to find the thread of the conversation again. He pulls the cigarette free. 

“You know I’m good for it,” he calls, a beat too late. Charlie’s already gliding away. He doesn’t even spare an eye to look back. 

MacCready frowns. He puts the cigarette back in his mouth. Now he really needs it. He feels around the pouch for the lighter he’d picked up in Croup Mansion’s crumbling living room. Oughta last him a while, if he’s lucky, and those rich stiffs were good for something. He thumbs the spark ring once, twice. The fourth try gets the flame. Great. Piece of crap. 

He takes a long drag, letting the warmth fill his lungs as he leans back a little again. He breathes out slowly, watching the smoke billow up toward the bobbing string of lights above him, turning red in the neon light from the sign above the shelves. Magnolia’s voice slips into something a little more comfortable, a silky slow ballad warm as the smoke in his mouth, while the hum of the crowd bubbles underneath. He thinks, for a moment, it’ll clear his head. Carry his thoughts somewhere else. The beer will help, too, when it finally kicks in. It’ll kill the memory of whiskey on his tongue. And he won’t look at the smoke and think of it curling out toward a seaside night sky. He won’t smell brine and water. He won’t think of Deacon leaning on the steeple steps, reaching for his wrist. 

_I didn’t think you smoked,_ he’d said, staring at the sunglasses.

And around a mouthful of smoke, Deacon had said, _Depends on the role I’m playing. Who I need to be in the moment._

MacCready scowls. He hunches forward again, shaking his head. The role he’s playing. Yeah, that was all MacCready needed to hear. Message received. He grabs the beer bottle.

He’s not sure what he expected. He’s not sure why he expected anything. Sure, they had a few laughs, a few chats, a few road trips. It’s not like they’re friends. Deacon’s been pretty clear. He tolerates MacCready, and MacCready… tolerates him. And that suits MacCready just fine. They’ve got their own things to worry about. It doesn’t matter. 

It doesn’t matter.

A few voices rise above the crowd. MacCready taps his cigarette against the ashtray and glances over his shoulder. He sees a flash of red, and the light catching on the edge of a tricorn hat, and the corner of his mouth twitches up. He turns a little on the stool, and watches the entourage of triggermen spill down the stairs and fan out around the bar. Hancock grins as several people greet him at once. He slaps a few backs, shakes a few hands, and weaves around the tables. MacCready turns back to his drink. 

Minutes later, just as MacCready’s starting to feel the pleasant, floating feeling of the alcohol hitting him, the open stool next to him is snatched up. A hand clasps his shoulder and shakes it a little. 

“Well, ain’t this a treat,” Hancock says, the gnarled skin of his face pulling tight in a grin. He drops his hand. 

“Bet you say that to all the mercenaries that roll through,” MacCready says, grinning back as he draws his cigarette back to his lips. 

“Only the good ones,” Hancock says. He winks as he reclines to the side against the bar, stretching his arm across the length of it and nearly brushing MacCready’s elbow. He tips his head up as Charlie glides over. “What’s good, Chuck?”

“Good to see you, Mayor Hancock,” Charlie says. “I wish I’d known you were coming. I’m afraid we’re out of that mutfruit brandy you like tonight.”

“Don’t sweat it, Chuck.” Hancock’s fingers flutter up off the bar, then back down. “Just gimme a vodka martini.” 

Charlie reaches under the bar for a glass. “Dirty?” 

“Filthy,” Hancock says, with another wink thrown MacCready’s way. “You know how I like it.”

MacCready just keeps grinning and shakes his head a little. He sips his beer, and watches Charlie pluck the bottle of vodka from the shelf behind him. He feels Hancock’s eyes on him, and cuts a look over without turning his head. “What?” 

Hancock straightens enough that just his elbow rests against the bar. “Lay it on me, Mac. What’s got you three beers in? You’re not here on business, tab like that.” 

“Just waiting on Anthony,” MacCready says, tapping his thumb on the butt of the cigarette. 

“Waiting on the Ice Prince has you throwin’ ‘em back like that?” Hancock’s brow lifts, enough to give the impression that if he had eyebrows, he’d be raising them. “What, you’re not Daddy’s favorite anymore?” 

“Shut up,” MacCready says, coughing around a laugh. He takes a sip of beer to clear his throat. “It’s nothing like that.” 

“All right,” Hancock says, black eyes still fixed on him. A martini glass clinks down near Hancock’s elbow, with a blobby, mutated olive skewered on a toothpick leaning against the rim. Hancock reaches inside his coat. 

“I can’t take your money, Mayor Hancock,” Charlie says, waving the arm that had been holding the drink. 

Hancock shrugs and reaches for the drink. “Can’t say I didn’t try.” 

He sips the martini, then plucks out the olive and slides his lips over it. His gaze fixes on MacCready again. 

MacCready rolls his eyes. Hancock laughs, and takes a bite out of the olive, setting the toothpick next to his glass. “So. Not the Vaultie. Gunners sniffing around again?” 

“Not since we sent them a message at the Interchange,” MacCready says. That hum under his skin is getting a little stronger. He chases the feeling with another sip of beer. 

“Atta boy,” Hancock says, nudging his arm. “So, not new business, and not old—”

“I’m good, man, really,” MacCready says around another drag. “You don’t have to do this.” 

“What are friends for but to stick their noses—or lack thereof,” he tips his head with a smirk, “where they don’t belong?” He sips at the martini. “So, what’s her name?” 

MacCready coughs, smoke bursting from his lips. “What? No, no—”

“ _His_ name?” 

MacCready’s eyes flick up and then back down as he catches his breath. He reaches for the beer again, murmuring into the rim, “No, uh, it’s not—like that—”

“Ah ha!” Hancock says.

MacCready looks away. “It’s really not a big deal.” 

“Sure. That’s why you’re sucking those beers down like they’re purified water.” 

MacCready purses his lips. Behind them, another song starts up with a loud burst of trumpets. Hancock leans in closer to hear MacCready as he says, “No, it’s just — it’s not really — crap. Okay. Fine. There’s… this guy.” 

God, why is it so hard to spit this out? The words come slow, tumbling together. If his head would just _focus_. He sees Hancock nod for him to continue, and then looks back down at the bar as he tries. “He’s working with Anthony on something, so he keeps tagging along on other stuff. Couldn’t stand him at first. Self-righteous type, you know? Kind of a prick. Total know-it-all.” 

Hancock’s smirking again. “Think I get the picture.” 

“Yeah, well—” MacCready takes one last puff off his cigarette and then stubs it out. “Lately, he—hasn’t been so bad.” 

It’s a full-on grin now. “Uh-huh.” 

MacCready scowls. “Don’t ‘uh-huh’ me. And put that grin away. There’s nothing to ‘uh-huh.’”

Hancock does not put that grin away. “But you want there to be.” 

The beer must really be hitting MacCready now. His cheeks feel so hot. “I didn’t say—no! No, that’s not—”

“One more time,” Hancock says. “Really try to put some feeling in it. I might believe you this time.”

“Shut up!” MacCready says, ripping his eyes away to glare at the ashtray. His fingers, restless now without the cigarette, find their way to the beer bottle’s label and start picking at the seal. “Fine, he’s not exactly… hard on the eyes. Are you happy?” 

“Hmm, paint me a picture,” Hancocks says. MacCready glances over to see him draped against the bar again, swirling his glass. “What are we working with? Tall? Short? Little bit of muscle?” 

MacCready pulls his hand away from the bottle to hold up a finger. “No. We are not doing that.” 

“Well, you’re no fun.” Hancock tips his head to the side again. “So, what’s the problem? Is he taken? Ugly? Bad taste in guns?” 

“What? Why would—what?” MacCready squints at him. The wobbly feeling rippling through his head again. 

“I dunno, seems like that might be a dealbreaker, guy like you.” Hancocks sips at the martini. “Come on, Mac. What’s holding you back? You’re not the shy type. When you know what you want, you go after it.” 

“It’s not—I don’t _want_ anything—”

“Put your back into it, you almost nailed it this time.” 

MacCready groans in frustration and takes another drink. The bottle’s nearly empty. “Look, I can’t even—figure out if he wants to be friends. One minute, he’s asking me about my life, we’re getting along, and then next he’s—I don’t know!” 

_Depends on the role I’m playing._

MacCready sets the bottle down. “The next, he’s acting like he’s just toying with me.” 

Hancock watches him over the rim of his glass. “You know, there’s an easy solution to all of this.” 

“You don’t understand. This isn’t a guy you just… talk to. Swear you need like… a—a frickin’... whatcha call it.” He circles his hands in the air, trying to think through the swimming blur in his head. “Book that tells you what words mean.” 

“Dictionary?”

MacCready makes a face. “No, like… when you use a word but you mean something else.” 

“Thesaurus.” 

“Come on, no.” 

“Code book?” 

MacCready snaps and points. “That’s it. One of those. Everything he says, it’s like that.” 

“I told you, brother. There’s an easy solution.” 

“And I told you, I can’t just talk to him. It’d be weird. I don’t even… I don’t even know why it—”

“No, man, fuck talking,” Hancock says as MacCready trails off. “Who wants to talk? Talk is cheap. No, you gotta just get him in bed.” 

MacCready almost knocks his beer over. “You want me to — _what_?” 

“Just fuck it out. Problem solved. If he’s a shitty lay, then you move on. And if he’s not, then you skipped the awkward part.” 

MacCready buries his face in his palms. He can feel how hot his cheeks are. “Where’s Charlie? I need another beer.” 

Hancock laughs and waves the old bot over. 

MacCready’s made a decent dent in his fourth beer by the time Anthony appears at his side. MacCready blinks at him, his vision swimming a little. “Hey, boss. Well, that face looks like good news.” 

His eyes slide away, to the figure standing behind Anthony. Deacon slowly comes into focus. He waits, blank-faced, barricaded behind those damn — those stupid sunglasses of his. The pleasant feeling of joking about it recedes as MacCready looks at him. Passive and unaffected as ever. He feels the sudden cold feeling that hit him last night when Deacon cut off their conversation with a single sentence, shuttering off as soundly as if he’d closed a door between them. But for just a moment, on that rooftop in Nordhagen, and up in the steeple, it’d felt like, maybe—

MacCready frowns again, and looks away. It didn’t matter to Deacon. He’d said it loud and clear. It was just a role he’d been playing. 

It didn’t matter at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk Fallout or just say hi: @electricshoebox on tumblr, @galaxiesgone on twitter.


End file.
